


stack overflow

by ichidou



Series: Anamnesis (one-shot collection) [5]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ichidou/pseuds/ichidou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Epsilon dreams in lines of code. Set during S10E17.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stack overflow

**Author's Note:**

> So this episode basically took all of my headcanon and made it easily translatable to canon. This was how I interpreted it.

Epsilon dreams in lines of code.

He sees patterns reflected in everything, from the _tap-tap-tap_ of the medics circling the table, checking over the flesh that isn’t his (except it is, now, they’re one and the same) and the hum of the lights above, the subtle frequency that he shouldn’t be able to detect.

He paints pictures in numbers and letters, in loops of functions and parameters, each one spiralling into inevitable failure. He can do it -- he has all the pieces, all the variables, all the _answers_ \-- and yet every single iteration returns errors that slice through every firewall he puts up.

He should-- he should be able to _do_ this, he _knows_ he can find the right constructor, he just needs more time, only the Director keeps coming back before he can finish, before he can see every possible conclusion to its end result, and it’s _out there_ , he knows, it’s not _impossible_ ( he is logic/rage/creativity there is nothing he can’t do ) but he can’t _reach_ it--

Wash’s mind is too small. He’s not a row of memory banks allocated just for him, room enough to spread out and drain every bit of power he can from them, he’s just bone and flesh and blood and he’s _weak_ , too weak to do what he has to ( he has to save her he can’t let her die not again not again ) but he won’t give up, he _won’t_ \--

He still has time. He just needs Wash to understand.

( even the dead wait dreaming for salvation )

He reaches out the only way he knows how -- in databanks, in twice-backed-up copies, in files and folders clustered close to his intangible heart. He translates encryptions into emotions, recordsets into recollections, and it’s not perfect ( she was, but only to him ) but it carries the essence of her, the little he has left--

( _stop it, put that thing down_ )

Except it’s jumbled, it’s not right, and he tries to smooth the memory out with flickering fingers, pulling the picture tight at the edges, and he knows every word ( _leonard, come on, stop it_ ) and it has to be enough it has to make Wash understand he’s human he should _get_ this--

_shut up shut up get out of my head_

Epsilon falters.

He falters, and even if it’s nothing but a few seconds, a moment to blink, he finds the kind of chaos he’s never known, not in any of his schematics, not _ever_. There were always rules and boundaries and _limits_ and there’s so much space to spread out and get lost in and it’s too much--

The screaming starts and he’s not sure which of them it is or if it’s both, if he’s using Wash’s voice to output the errors shrieking through his functions, and he pulls up every precious datafile he has, shoving them to the forefront--

( _you’re gonna make me late_ )

And Wash has to get this, he has to _feel_ it, because he can’t do it again-- he can’t be too late, not again, not _ever_ , he’s going to get there this time, he’s going to save her and it loops and loops and loops and--

_shut up shut up shutupmakeitstopican’t_

He is memory, he is the essence of the whole, he is Alpha in all but name, and he’s _stable_ , no matter how many runtime errors crash through his chip. He’s always been able to restart and boot clean, flush every hidden cache of bad data, but when Epsilon reaches out there’s nothing but the hurricane of an unfamiliar mind, shredding him without wiping away the pieces, and the memories scatter so fast and so far he feels like he’s coming apart all over again--

( _i am sorry. washington and another died._ )

_it’s not me you’re not me i don’t **remember**_

But Epsilon remembers.

He unravels in batches of code, one iteration spit out after another, and it doesn’t matter how long he’s held on to his memory banks -- they’re like a torrential rush of water pouring into every crevice of Wash’s mind, flooding all the empty spaces until it short-circuits and overflows and they’re both drowning in everything that’s left--

( _but don’t say goodbye_ )

And even as he watches the last memories he has left of her play before his ( _their_ ) eyes and hears their ( _his_ ) screams echo through the room, Epsilon knows it doesn’t matter.

( _i hate goodbyes._ )

He won’t forget.


End file.
